Six portkeys in a row was excessive, Harry thought, even with the anti-nausea potion and his growing skill. But it was the fastest way from Los Angeles to New York, and it hardly mattered when he stumbled, since everyone was staring at Marina rather than him.
After four nights together, beginning on the train, he knew every inch of her. And while she technically wasn't a Veela, she clearly had a magic all her own, because he was utterly bewitched. Not that they'd remain a couple—almost from the start he'd known it was temporary. But he'd learnt there was a particular appeal to a brief, torrid affair.
They nevertheless extended things a bit. Instead of returning to Boston on Wednesday, he accompanied her to Los Angeles, where Virginia Holloway trotted them about. Someone threw a party for them in a mansion overlooking the ocean, and Harry took scores of pictures for Narcissa—mainly of the house. Everyone was terribly glamorous, including their hosts, and youth potions were clearly the norm. But no one looked uncanny, since the lighting minimised the effect, and only the contrast with Marina gave it away.
It was almost embarrassing posing next to her, particularly in front of Muggles, since he literally didn't measure up. Indeed, more than one photographer shouted, "Who's the shrimp?" But Harry's accent sparked rumours he was either a lesser-known royal or an up-and-coming rock star, particularly because Marina had dated a famous musician for nearly three years.
"I miss him," she admitted to Harry, their first morning together. "I gave him an ultimatum, and now we are apart. He says he wants to marry, and for me to have his children, but he never proposes. He says there is no hurry, and that I have time because witches live longer. But I am tired of waiting, so I left."
"He knows you're a witch?" said Harry, unsure where to begin. He was surprised and a bit perturbed to discover she was in love with someone else—particularly after the night they'd just shared.
"Yes." She named a song Harry wasn't familiar with, since it wasn't on vinyl, and said he'd written it about her. "The version that is famous has slightly different lyrics, because otherwise it is too obvious. But the original ..." A tear rolled down her cheek, and he comforted her.
She assured Harry she'd genuinely wanted to sleep with him, because of his reputation, but her main goal was to make her ex jealous. "He knows who you are," she said, wiping her eyes. "When I went to London for the casting session, he made jokes I would leave him for you, because you are a wizard and he is not. I think that is why he wants to have children with me, because they might be magical."
"Doesn't that bother you?" he asked, rather offended on her behalf.
Her smile was sad, and oddly wise. "Harry, why else do people like me? Because of my mind? I am perhaps smarter than I look, but I am not smarter than I am beautiful."
Not even Hermione is smarter than you're beautiful, Harry thought. "So you want him to propose?"
"Yes, and I want to start having children." She grimaced and said, "I am nearly thirty."
Harry hoped his surprise wasn't visible. She was officially 25, although he'd heard rumours she was older. Still, she looked great, and he'd been propositioned by women far older than that. Just wait until Witch Weekly finds out, he thought, recalling how chuffed they were about Fiona.
"What would you like from me, then? We can stop sleeping together if you'd prefer," he said, hiding his disappointment.
"No, I like you. And he does not own me."
Together they worked out a plan, involving copious photographs, both magical and Muggle. The magical publicity would help her career, which could last much longer on the wizarding side. She'd retain financial independence, and Harry had heard enough about dowries to know how important that was.
But Muggle publicity was essential, since it would rattle her ex. "He is afraid I will leave the non-magical world completely," she said, "and if he sees me with you, I know he will call." This seemed to Harry like a fragile basis for a marriage, but he liked the idea of accompanying her to Muggle hotspots—and being photographed by people who didn't know who he was.
They hit a small snag the first time they went out, in San Francisco. "Can I see some ID?" asked the doorman. Marina had walked straight to the nightclub entrance, bypassing the queue, and the doorman didn't object. But Harry was caught completely off guard, and Marina had to cover for him.
"Harry, I told you to bring your passport! Darling," she said to the doorman, in her sexiest accent, "I promise he is old enough. Why would I bring a boy?"
The doorman stammered and waved them in, and the next morning Harry bought a fake ID. He tossed it onto the bed, where she was still lounging. "Evan St. James," he announced. "Licensed to drive." He'd chosen the "Evan" and "James" to honour his parents, and the forger added the "Saint" to make it more posh.
"Do I feel a Compulsion Charm?" she asked, holding it up.
"Just a weak one, to prevent awkward questions about Oregon—where I apparently live."
She enjoyed choosing his outfits, and he was glad he'd brought a wide selection. "But all of this is so English!" she complained. "We must get you something Italian, perhaps in L.A."
He was appalled by the prices, but she assured him the styles were timeless and the clothes would last forever. "Men are lucky that way," she said, and he bought sunglasses as well. Shopping in Beverly Hills was utterly surreal, particularly with Marina by his side, and when they were photographed he provided his new made-up name.
"Should I recognise that?" asked a photographer.
"No," said Harry. "But Marina does, which is enough for me."
They asked her about the rock star, and whether they'd broken up. "He knows how to reach me," she said. "And if I am not busy, I will answer."
Indeed, he called when they were in New York, staying in a hotel instead of her flat, which she described as a "pit." She showed Harry his name on her mobile, but she didn't answer.
"Technically we're no longer busy," said Harry, tracing her cheekbone.
She stretched her arms carelessly. "Let him worry. Everything is too easy for him now."
It's pretty easy for me too, thought Harry, still dazzled. He wasn't yet over Fiona, and the return to England would be hard, but four nights with Marina had very much softened the blow.
He knew Jamie would be pleased. Despite his earlier protests, Harry had, in fact, fucked his way from coast to coast. He'd lived in the moment, as Alex had advised, and he even had a plan for when he got home.
Find a friend with benefits. He should probably wait a couple of weeks—a break wouldn't kill him, after the trip he'd had. In the meantime, he could reconnect with the friends he'd been neglecting, and learn how to live without seeing Fiona all the time.
But first, a night in New York. He let Marina decide where to go, and it was thoroughly Muggle—and brilliant. Unlike California, where she'd coasted mainly on looks, everyone in New York seemed to know her. Harry got to see her jabber with friends both in Russian and Estonian, and even though he couldn't reveal much about himself, he used Light magic to project an air of sophistication, in spite of his age. Dressed in the clothes she'd selected, he drew admiring looks from women and men alike, and the name Evan St. James was on multiple lips.
They wound up in a cavernous loft, where vast paintings covered the walls, and the crowd was more diverse than in L.A. There were plenty of models, but also people from the art and music worlds. Lou Reed was reportedly there, but Harry didn't dare approach him, knowing just how annoying that could be.
He continued to indulge in Light magic, imbibing it almost like a drug. More than one person asked what he was on—and where they could get some—but Harry only smiled and said, "I'd share it if I could." He didn't talk much, but he asked lots of questions, which made him surprisingly popular. He also indulged freely in the Look, for the pleasure of drawing people close.
Davina had often mentioned "Light charisma," and surely this was it. The loft was packed with interesting people, but even without Marina by his side, Harry felt special. Not for being a wizard or the Boy Who Lived, but for having already found what so many others were looking for. He didn't need drugs—he could access bliss simply with his mind, and people could sense it. That was Light charisma: the air of having found what everyone else desperately sought.
"I do not wish to share you," said Marina, embracing him from behind. "People have asked, you know."
Harry wasn't surprised, and they enjoyed a brief snog, as part of her plan. Her ex wasn't at the party, but she wanted him to find out she was "hot and heavy" with a short, dark-haired Englishman. Harry knew she was using him, but he truly didn't care. She'd shown him a brilliant time in America, and not just in bed. With her help, he'd felt how vast the Muggle world was without feeling left out. He was nothing like the pathetic little boy he'd once been—he was a charismatic young man, whom strangers wanted to meet and beautiful women wanted to shag.
Back at the hotel with Marina, his Light magic overwhelmed him, to the point where he no longer felt separate from her. Her beauty seemed a reflection of something deeper in himself: a power he'd never fully acknowledged. This is what people see in me, he thought, finally understanding. This is why I'm special.
He used it the next day, while Portkeying home. He was a living billboard for the Light Arts, after all, and if he could cross the Atlantic with ease, scores of people might benefit. The first leg, from New York to Boston, was a proof of concept—and a success. Wingardium Leviosa, he thought, landing gently while everyone else thudded. On the next stage, to Newfoundland, he winked at a little girl who was staring at him, and in her terror she managed to smile.
While crossing the ocean he concentrated on the view, particularly as Iceland drew near. The fjords were magnificent, and his satisfaction only increased. I'm the luckiest wizard alive, he thought—perhaps next time he could even skip the anti-nausea potion. The trip into Scotland was lovely as well, and during the final leg into London, he pulled out his boutonnière and sniffed it.
"For you, Mademoiselle," he said, handing it to the little girl when they landed, and she blushed with delight.
"Great Merlin, I've never seen anything like that!" exclaimed her mum. "That may be more impressive than surviving You-Know-Who!"
"Light magic," he said. "I hope everyone can try it someday."
He'd previously dreaded coming home, in case memories of Fiona rushed back, but Grimmauld Place felt perfect somehow. It even revealed another room. "So, this is the Conservatory?" he said to Kreacher, looking about.
"Yes, Master!" said the delighted elf. "Lodie has been tending the plants, and now Pinelle can help as well. It will be the most beautiful garden in England."
A sniff from Pinelle. "Yes, in England," she said, her mouth pinched. "But it is so dark here."
The room was, in fact, brighter than anywhere else in the house. It wasn't California-bright, of course, and Harry didn't anticipate needing his sunglasses, but it was positively cheerful by Grimmauld Place standards. Although the rest of the house was oddly pleasant as well. He already liked pure-blood decorating—and the memories of Sirius—but he felt more connected to the house than ever before.
He tested it with a visit to the Star Chamber. "Oh, yes," he moaned aloud, sinking into a chair. His magic embraced him; he cast darkness wandlessly, then waved his hand to light more candles. "Did you miss me?" he asked the scowling portraits.
"No," said Vituperus Black. "Your wretched counterpart prances about at all hours. He has no sense of decorum."
"Decorum is overrated," said Harry. "Any idea where Typhon is?"
"Probably at the Ministry," said a portrait. "Keeping tabs on you, no doubt. But I'm sure he'll be back soon—he has spies in the Portkey terminal as well."
Sure enough, Typhon appeared. "Welcome back," he said to Harry, inclining his head. "I trust your trip was successful?"
"You probably know more about it than I do," said Harry. "What have you heard?"
Typhon accurately summarised Harry's trip to America, including parts he really shouldn't have known about. "How do you plan to proceed with the International Quidditch Federation? I assume they bribed you."
"They did. But I haven't agreed to anything."
"Excellent—you hold all the cards." Typhon proposed several ways for Harry to exploit them, which Harry largely ignored, then he asked about Valerie and Marina. "I wouldn't object to your marrying a foreigner," Typhon declared.
"Really? Why not?"
"The Blacks need fresh blood, as you well know. But an established British family would try to take over. Better to marry an ambitious beauty from abroad, although she should leave her relations at home. Or if they come, you can poison them."
"I'd never poison anyone!"
"No, of course not—you're a Light wizard. And, if I'm not mistaken, your Light magic has deepened."
Harry tilted his chin. "It has done, thanks. But how can you tell?"
"You have a new air of confidence," said Typhon. "You never lacked it, of course, but it was a Gryffindor swagger—more brash than elegant. But now I see less of the Potters and more of the Blacks." He studied Harry, then said, "Are you familiar with the expression, 'To the manor born'? Because that's what I'm seeing. It's a sort of ... grace."
"There's no need to slander the Potters," said Harry. "As you know, I'm proud to be middle class. But I think I know what you mean." Smiling, he said, "It probably didn't hurt that everyone fawned over me in America, simply for being English."
"I'm sure that was instrumental," said Typhon. "Anyway, please accept my congratulations. The Light Arts aren't my preferred practice, but I'd rather you were an exceptional Light wizard than a middling Dark one."
When Harry left the Star Chamber, he ran into Janet and Ron. "Snitchbottom!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Are you really back? Or is this some new trick of Jamie's?"
"No, it's really me. But what's Jamie been up to? Do I need to worry?"
"Not at all. The sword suits him, and I'm sure you'll start carrying one as well. It'll be a new trend."
Harry pulled away and stared at her. "You're joking, right?"
"No, he really has one," said Ron. "Traded with Hector Black for it. But don't worry, he doesn't carry it all the time."
Sighing, Harry said, "I can never have anyone over, can I?"
"Sure you can. Heaps of people have met him already, and they all think he's brilliant."
Harry looked back and forth between them, hoping it was joke. "It's true," said Janet. "We had a bunch of the Cannons over last night, along with some friends from school, and Jamie played host. But really, he was fine."
"Everyone knows I have a portrait?" said Harry, aghast.
"Mate, you're the Boy Who Lived, head of House Black, and an underwear model," said Ron. "No one was even surprised."
They assured him Jamie hadn't revealed any secrets. "People kept asking about that sexy blonde you were with, but he didn't breathe a word," said Janet. "Honestly, I think he'll be good for your reputation, since he's less standoffish than you are."
Harry needed to expand into awareness to keep from getting upset, but relief came quickly. Why wouldn't I have a portrait? he thought.
"All right, then," he said cheerfully. "I should probably thank you for ripping away the plaster. Especially since I want to start entertaining again."
"Yes!" cried Janet. "What'll it be this time? Jazz-age speakeasy? Venetian bordello? Court of Louis XIV?"
"No, although his sister was a witch," said Harry, still unperturbed. "I was picturing something smaller, and more casual—like people getting together at the weekend. There's no reason not to, particularly now that we have another house-elf to keep busy."
Ron grimaced and said, "Er, I think she's pretty busy already. Kreacher too."
Harry inhaled sharply. "You can't mean ..."
"Oh yes, house-elf snogging," said Janet. "Word to the wise: stay out of the kitchen."
"They're at it in the kitchen?!"
"They were a few hours ago, when Kreacher got back. I also caught them in the drawing room, getting a little frisky with a feather duster."
Harry sighed. "I suppose I'm in no position to judge," he said. "And I'm glad if Kreacher is happy."
After looking in on Banthora, he went upstairs to find Jamie. "Knock knock," he said aloud, before entering the dressing room.
"Come in," said Jamie. "And welcome home! I don't need to ask how the trip went."
"No, it was good. And you were right that I needed a change of scene."
"Two changes of scene," Jamie grinned. "Any chance Marina will get her portrait painted soon?"
"Sorry, you'll have to make do with the dozens of other women in the house. Which reminds me—have you seen the conservatory?"
"Yes, weeks ago. The Three Graces say hi, by the way."
"Of course they do," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "Are there any other rooms you want to tell me about?"
"And ruin the surprise? Absolutely not! By the way, can I have a copy of those sunglasses you bought in California?"
Feeling indulgent, Harry cast the charm to give Jamie his own pair of sunglasses, with a promise to send in his new clothes as soon as Kreacher cleaned them. "Just don't tell anyone what they cost, all right?"
"I'm the soul of discretion," said Jamie, donning the glasses and looking in the mirror. "Brilliant—Aurora's going to love them."
"The one who murdered her sisters for their dowries?"
"Yes, but there's much more to her than that. Her life was tragic, really."
"Not as tragic as her sisters', I reckon."
"Perhaps not," said Jamie, peering over the top of his sunglasses. "But she was born ahead of her time, which meant she had very few options in life."
"Yes, only two sisters to murder. Unless there were more?"
"No, just the two. But she was a lot like Lydia—brilliant and beautiful. Only she didn't have the good fortune to reject the Dark Arts, which she was taught almost from birth."
"Oh my god," said Harry, feeling almost ill. "Which emotion did she use?"
"Vanity, of course. And ambition. What's more, her parents pitted the girls against one another. For example, before going to a ball, her sister Angelica tried giving her a velvet cloak that concealed a Lethifold. But Aurora spurned it, since it was the wrong shade of black, and the beadwork was uninspired. Which taught her to always trust her fashion sense, since it literally saved her life."
Harry needed to sit down. "The Dark Arts are truly vile," he said, horrified. "But she's starting to improve?"
"Yes, she's highly sentient. Mind you, it'll take a while, since she was in pretty deep. But remember how it was with Lydia—exposing her to a new world and watching her change? That's what it's like with Aurora, and we have all the time in the world."
"Just don't cheat on her," Harry warned, recalling how things had ended with Lydia.
"Too late for that. But it's fine—she has her own lovers. This house is a regular Roman orgy once you pull back the curtains."
"Pure-blood decorating strikes again," Harry muttered.
"Too right," said Jamie. "By the way, thanks for checking in while you were away. I certainly don't keep tabs on you, but when you address me like that, I hear it loud and clear. So it's a good way to stay in sync when we're apart."
"Really? What if I whisper? Would you hear it then?"
"I think so. But we can test it later."
"Will I interrupt what you're doing?" asked Harry, not wanting to catch Jamie with his pants down—literally.
"Different part of my brain. I could be in the middle of a fencing lesson, and it still wouldn't throw me off. Portrait magic, I guess."
Harry was oddly moved, and Jamie suddenly felt more like a guardian angel than a sex-crazed imp. "All right, I'll keep that in mind. Cheers!"
"Glad to help. And really, nice job in America. I was genuinely afraid you were going to brood the whole time, particularly when Sophie turned you down. But you got right back in there, and then some!" He tapped his temple and said, "And thanks for the memories of Marina. If I'm ever bored while shagging some doodle, I can just trot those out."
"Doodle?" said Harry weakly.
"Sorry, that's how we refer to the non-sentient paintings. They're fun, but rather light on personality."
Harry tried banishing the mental image of Dean Thomas's more lurid drawings from school—and what Jamie might be doing with them. Still a sex-crazed imp, he thought.
He spent the evening at home with Janet and Ron, which was perfect after the frenzy of America. They mainly talked Quidditch, and Janet made him feel better about the rules change.
"Really, you can't lose," she argued. "If it's popular, you'll be a hero for fixing a centuries-old problem. And if it's a complete and utter disaster, it'll only last a year, and the Chasers will finally shut up."
"Right, but it could be a truly unpleasant year," said Harry. "Some people will probably lose their jobs over this."
"Yes, but someone else will get those jobs—probably flyers like Gemma, from no-name schools. And you're always going on about making wizarding Britain more egalitarian."
"That's a good point," he said. "Although I'm sure we'll lose her to another team—and soon."
"Now there's a match I want to see," said Ron, leaning back. "You against Gemma? Bloody brilliant."
Narcissa, however, was less sanguine about the change. "Lucius gave me an earful on Wednesday," she told Harry the next day. "He says the backlash will be enormous, and it could bring Draco down with you."
"The backlash?" exclaimed Harry.
"Yes, politically. He called it a gross insult to wizarding tradition, and he claims no one will back your goblin agenda now."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake! After all those parties I attended—specifically to form alliances—you're saying people will drop their support because of the sodding Quidditch rules?"
"Those were Lucius's words, not mine. Although he knows politics better than anyone." Harry sighed, and she said, "However, I'll admit the landscape has changed, and his instincts mightn't be what they were."
"I guess we'll find out," said Harry, glancing into his teacup. No answers there, Snitchbottom. "What does Draco think?"
"You'll have to ask him. I'm expecting him home for luncheon—will you join us?"
Harry had planned to eat lunch at Pratt's, but he realised he'd rather stay where he was. "Thanks, I'd like that," he said. "I still can't believe it, but I feel completely at home here now. Which is a bloody miracle, considering my first visit."
"That's the power of hospitality. It's a subtle branch of magic, and I wasn't able to practise it properly during the war." Her expression clouded. "Not with that monster in the house, or with prisoners in the cellar."
"The cellar definitely lacked your touch," he joked, drawing a faint smile from her. "But tell me more about hospitality. Now that I'm not spending all my time with Fiona, I'd like to start entertaining again."
Clearly pleased, she said, "There are several levels of hospitality, and some are beyond your control. For example, a Light wizard will never be as comfortable in Malfoy Manor as a Dark wizard, since your magic doesn't align with the background magic. I'm sure you experienced that when you first went to Grimmauld Place."
"Yes, and for years afterwards," said Harry. "After the war, Bill Weasley spent months chipping away all the Dark magic, which made a huge difference. Although things also improved when I finally won over Kreacher."
"That's another layer of hospitality. With your command, house elves can make the home hostile or friendly. If I wanted, I could order the elves to make you feel deeply uncomfortable right now."
"I'll take your word for it," he said, grimacing. "Although Draco has probably used it on me already."
"No, I've never told him about it. Hospitality is largely a witch's art."
Harry recalled Davina's advice to embrace his feminine side, and he was pleased to be doing so automatically. Light magic is brilliant, he thought, sinking in deeper.
She described the nuances of house-elf hospitality, which was timely, since Pinelle would clearly require training. "She may prove hard to win over," said Narcissa. "At her age, she's bound to have strong opinions. She'll obey you, of course, but house-elves are adept at finding loopholes, as I'm sure you're aware."
They both lowered their eyes for a moment, and there was no need to mention Sirius. "Do you have any suggestions?" he asked. "I'd rather not be at odds with her, particularly with Kreacher in the middle."
"Frankly, it's a difficult situation. She was exiled for more than fifty years, and I'm sure she's resentful about it. I assume she's forgiven Kreacher, but I doubt you hold the same appeal for her."
"Merlin, I hope not! Picturing her with Kreacher is bad enough."
Narcissa gave him a stern look. "Harry, you don't always need to state the unspoken."
"You're right," he said, still trying to obliterate the mental image. "Anyway, you were telling me about hospitality?"
"Yes, thank you." She briefly closed her eyes, and Harry suspected she too was trying not to picture Kreacher having sex. "This doesn't work for large gatherings, but when I'm hosting only a handful of guests I observe them closely, to better anticipate their needs." She sniffed, then said, "I could tell you how the Dark Lord's entire inner circle took their tea—and which wines, cheeses, and biscuits they preferred."
Harry refrained from asking whether Dolohov preferred Jammie Dodgers or Hobnobs. "That's very kind. And yes, I've noticed."
"But I take it further with the most important guests—and I'm afraid you and the Dark Lord fall in the same category. My mother taught me this technique, and I'm not ashamed to say I use Dark magic to fuel it." Harry tensed, and she said, "Relax, it's nothing sinister. I merely set an intention to notice your slightest preferences and file away the information for later."
When she said "set an intention," Harry thought immediately of the spotting technique Owen had taught him. "Interesting," he said. "Please, go on."
"It's largely unconscious," she continued. "Otherwise I wouldn't be able to hold a conversation. But I assign a portion of my mental faculties to noting how long your eyes linger on a particular painting, for example, or whether you eat the garnish with your meal."
Harry suddenly wondered if he wasn't supposed to eat the small sprig of parsley. But Narcissa clearly noticed and said, "It's fine to eat the parsley. That's why I've told the elves to give you extra. I've also changed the placement of your favourite chair, since you had a habit of moving it a shade anticlockwise."
He glanced down at the chair in question. "I don't even remember moving my chair!"
"You probably weren't aware of it. And I wasn't either—not in the moment. But you did it more than once, and when I decided you should feel comfortable rather than wary, I made the adjustment. And you've never moved it since."
He twisted his mouth and said, "Do I want to know when you decided I was worthy of comfort?"
"After you stated under Veritaserum you weren't trying to manipulate Draco. Until then, you were a dangerous unknown."
"I suppose I was," he admitted. Returning to the main topic, he said, "And this is Dark magic because you're fuelling it with pride and all the rest?"
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin. "That's at the heart of nearly all my magic."
She shared more hospitality tips and even showed him a rare book about using magical flowers to influence the mood. "I've been reluctant to tell you about it, because of this section here," she said, opening to a page near the back and showing it to him.
"Romantic Coercion," was the title, and Harry chest clenched. "How could anyone even publish this, let alone put it into practice?" he exclaimed.
Narcissa levelled her gaze at him and said, "Do you really need to ask?" He stared back, horrified, and she added, "I realise you'd never do anything like that, even if you didn't have so many ... options."
Her delicate pause before "options" spoke volumes. "No, I wouldn't," he said archly.
"Of course not. And I'm certainly not defending the practice. But it's hardly the only method for coaxing interest from an unwilling partner."
Right, there's also the Imperius Curse and Love Potions, Harry thought. Sodding wizards. "But what about the rest of the book? I wouldn't want to make a guest feel comfortable at the expense of their free will."
This time Narcissa's tone was arch. "Do you have free will right now? Or any of the other times you've visited since Draco's release?"
Harry paused to consider it. "Er, I think so? But how would I know?"
To prove her point, she had Nitta remove the offending flowers, but all Harry felt was a faint sense of loss. He was still very much at ease, but the flower arrangements looked less vibrant, and the room felt slightly colder.
"Fine, you win," he said. "Do I have to go to Knockturn Alley to find that book? I'm surprised it's not in the Black family library already."
She said a rare book dealer could locate a copy, and she offered to make enquiries on his behalf. "But really, after this last witch, no one will think you need Dark methods of coercion."
"Right, because they think I've already used them." An image of Marina arose in his mind, and he smiled. "So, what did you think?"
Narcissa's brows drew together. "Let's just say I'm relieved you came home alone."
Harry assured her there was no chance he and Marina would marry, and he explained the arrangement they'd made.
"That explains it," said Draco, who'd just arrived. "You barely came up to her chin."
That didn't matter in bed, Harry thought, smiling again, and Nitta arrived to announce luncheon. Only later, when the two wizards were alone, did Draco return to the topic.
"If your goal was to make people forget about Fiona, you definitely succeeded."
"Oh?" said Harry, leaning back. "What were they saying at Pratt's?"
He listened with satisfaction as Draco described the general astonishment and envy. But Draco's next revelation brought him crashing down.
"I don't know if you've heard," said Draco, "but Phil Routledge ended things with Daphne. She's an absolute wreck."
Harry feigned ignorance while Draco told him what happened, and he was relieved she didn't know he'd cheated on her. "Should I owl her?" he asked. "I assume she's upset I introduced them."
"She's not upset—she's livid. Be prepared for a Howler."
He also asked Draco what people thought about the Quidditch rules change. "Your mum was worried about a backlash, and that it might derail our goblin agenda."
"Yes, I know all about Mother's worries. Vicki says I should slip her some Xanax, whatever that is." Draco removed a bit of lint from his sleeve and said, "The traditionalists are appalled. Romulus Wynter says you're a menace and need to be stopped, and of course the Traverses feel the same way."
Harry sighed. "Brilliant. I realise they'll never co-sponsor the thing, but we'll still need some of their votes. And what about the current sponsors? Are they likely to back out?"
"The overall mood seems to be 'wait and see.' So, prepare for a delay."
"Bugger," said Harry, scowling. "Hermione's going to kill me."
"Surely Ryan Bellamy is pleased about the rules change! And honestly, I think the delay will help us. It's still more than a year before I turn twenty-one, after all."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Pratt's membership, of course. Everyone expects me to betray you, but not before I'm invited to join."
"Oh, right—you're only a junior member. And they aren't desperate to tame you like they were with me." Harry no longer expected Draco to betray him, but he still wondered what Draco was telling people. "Have you decided how you'll stab me in the back?"
His expression haughty, Draco said, "It'll be after we get the treaties revoked, but before they finalise the new ones. I'll form a stealth committee of Dark wizards, and we'll negotiate with the goblins in secret. We still have people in the DMLE—not Death Eaters, of course, but solid allies—and they're dying to undermine Bode."
Harry was a little disturbed by how confident Draco sounded. "And how will your treaties differ from what we have in mind?"
"They'll be more adversarial. There are goblin factions, after all, and Father wants me to exploit them."
"I see," Harry said, relieved by the mention of Lucius, which suggested Draco wouldn't actually do it. "Have you shared your plan with anyone?"
"No, it's enough to hint that I have one. The only reason I've mapped it out so thoroughly is so I don't inadvertently contradict myself."
"If you don't mind my asking, why aren't you pursuing something like that? It's very shrewd, after all."
"It's too much work," said Draco languidly. "I'd rather expend effort enriching House Malfoy. And I value our friendship, believe it or not."
Harry was only surprised he'd admitted it. "Same here," he said, and he didn't needle Draco with another push to learn the Patronus Charm.
In his quest to renew old friendships, Harry went to Sunday dinner at the Burrow. It also felt pleasantly familiar, although it lacked the sumptuous warmth of Malfoy Manor. Clearly those flowers make a difference, he thought, and he looked forward to getting that book.
Everyone teased him about his trip, and Ginny chided him for dating another redhead. "For the love of Merlin, move on!" she joked.
"I did! Or did you miss the photos of Marina?"
"Oh, she saw them all right," said Wendy. "In fact, she wants Pensieve memories."
"Yes, please!" said Ginny. "My half-birthday's next week."
Molly looked unsure whether to scold her or not. "Harry deserves privacy," she declared, before George interrupted her.
"Right, will you come on the radio this week? It's been ages, and I'm sure you have heaps of stories about America."
"No, Harry—not again," said Molly. "It was fine when you were new to the Cannons, but now you've moved on, and it's best to stay the course." She glanced at Arthur, presumably for support.
Harry looked at him as well, curious what he'd say. Arthur had given him a proper bollocking several months earlier, which Harry had thrown back at him.
"That's Harry's decision," said Arthur. "Harry, you've navigated your new life astonishingly well, and I see no reason to second-guess you."
"Yes!" cried George, pumping his fist. "So, Harry, what'll it be?"
Feeling magnanimous, Harry said, "I'm sorry, Molly. I know you'd rather I keep a low profile, but I really enjoy the radio programme, at least now and then."
She nodded sadly, then turned to George. "Try not to insult him so much," she ordered. "Admit it—you were too hard on him."
"He's already apologised," said Harry. "But your mum is right," he said to George. "Try not to be such a dick."
"I'll do my best," said George, clearly thrilled by Harry's decision.
After dinner, George and Percy pulled him aside to discuss the condom scheme. "We're still on for March," said Percy quietly. "Only a handful of shops at first—they want to limit distribution until we work out the kinks."
"Kinks?" said Harry, alarmed.
"Not with the product," said George. "The final phase of testing went fine. No breakage, no pregnancies. And everyone wanted more—we may need to break out the costume again."
"What costume?" asked Harry, but Percy tried changing the topic.
"I'd invite you to tour the manufacturing plant–" he began.
"Percy, don't be shy," said George. "It was your idea, after all."
Percy's ears turned pink, and he cleared his throat. "It was a question of access. The first time we attempted distribution—at a Muggle sexual health fair—they kicked us out for not being on the list. But I noticed a lot of vendors had elaborate displays, and I realised we could do something similar."
"He dressed up as a condom," whispered George. "He tried getting me to do it, but Percy's so much taller!"
"You're girthier!" countered Percy. "I still say you should have worn it!"
"I wouldn't have stood out in the crowd! And I was right—we gave away heaps of free samples."
Percy summarised the feedback they'd received on the mail-in comment cards, and all of it was favourable. "No one noticed the size enhancement, but several people mentioned how much their partner had liked it. And more than one person asked where they could buy them."
"And we don't hint at the size thing on the packaging?" asked Harry.
"No, not at all. Unless you count the brand name, which George came up with."
"Lavishly," declared George. "A little girly, I'll admit, but let's face it—women are our biggest market."
Harry approved of the name, which conjured memories of Marina. She'll be a hard act to follow, he thought, remembering her lavish curves and pillowy lips. It was probably fortunate he was taking a break, since he'd need time to stop making comparisons.
But he was reminded of her during breakfast the next morning, thanks to a huge photo spread in the Prophet. The article was titled, "One Week—Two Very Different Witches," and it featured his two latest partners. But there were far more photos of Marina than Valerie, thanks to her modelling career, and Harry took his time reviewing them.
Ron studied them closely as well. "Blimey, I can't believe you had five whole nights with her. She's completely unreal!"
"Trust me, she's real," said Harry. "And yes, she's beyond gorgeous. Although Valerie was lovely as well—it's a little unfair pitting them against each other like that."
"Yeah, she's definitely fit," said Ron, looking at a photo from Valerie's improv show. It was taken after the performance, and she wore the red dress Harry had bought her. She was surrounded by new admirers, hoping to lure her into a film career, and Harry was off to the side, chatting with Phil.
And Lindsey! he realised. "Ron, give that here," he said urgently. Ron slid the paper towards him, and Harry took a closer look.
At first glance it seemed all right—Phil and Lindsey were next to each other, but they weren't interacting. But then she ruffled his hair, and he leaned in for a kiss.
"Shit! Do you think Daphne will see this?"
"How should I know?" said Ron irritably. "She's your friend, not mine."
"Right, I should really introduce you—assuming she doesn't kill me first."
She didn't owl him that morning, or send a message by Floo, and Harry hoped she mightn't have seen it. But when he returned from lunch at Pratt's, after Cannons training, she was waiting in the reception hall.
"Daphne!" he exclaimed. "It's, er, nice to see you. What brings you here?"
"You know full well why I'm here!" she spat, flinging a scrap of newsprint at him. It was the photograph, of course.
"I'm really sorry," he began. "I swear, I tried stopping him."
"Don't make me laugh! If you'd actually wanted to stop him, you'd have bloody well succeeded! You killed Voldemort, for Merlin's sake! Not to mention what you did to Draco."
Sectumsempra? he wondered, backing away slightly. "I know, and believe me, I gave him a piece of my mind. But he was already planning to end things, before he even met her."
"Probably when he booked his Portkey," she scowled. "God, I should never have trusted you!"
"Really, I'm sorry." Harry belatedly remembered his etiquette lessons and said, "Er, would you like to sit down? I can send for refreshments." Like a Calming Draught, he added inwardly.
"No, I won't sit down!" she snapped, but then she crumpled into a settee. "Oh Harry, what am I going to do?"
Harry tentatively sat next to her, and she didn't protest. "Daphne, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible for pushing you together. Both of you said it wouldn't work, because of your backgrounds, but I was too blind to see it."
"I should have realised you wouldn't understand," she said, beginning to cry. "It's not your fault, of course—you didn't choose to be an orphan. But how could you possibly know what family obligations are like?"
"You're right, I don't. Not really," he said, offering her a handkerchief.
She took it from him, since she was crying in earnest. "I finally told my parents about him, the night he left for America. They were shocked and upset, but I knew they couldn't stop me. They'd never disinherit me, certainly."
She'd mentioned that before, but Harry had never asked why. "Forgive me, but why not? I know you have a sister," he said, hoping to distract her a little.
It didn't work—she only cried harder. "She's ill," said Daphne through tears. "It's a blood curse, centuries old. She'll almost certainly die young, and she mightn't even be able to have children."
Daphne was leaning against him, and he put an arm around her. "That's terrible! I'm so sorry."
"For all I know, one of my kids will have it, since it isn't passed down directly. That's partly why I wanted to be with Phil, in case new blood might end it once and for all."
By this point, Daphne was sobbing, and Harry just held her. "It was bad enough being dumped, but to find out he was cheating," she continued. "I know I was frustrating for him, but I told him I was ready! He kept putting it off, though—he said he didn't want to rush me. I thought he was such a gentleman."
She blew her nose, then said, "Of course, my parents are thrilled. They're trying to hide it, but I heard my mother tell my aunt what a relief it was I'm still a virgin." Her mouth tensed, and she said, "I hate my virginity—I should never have kept it this long."
Harry wasn't sure what to say, and he hoped she'd keep talking, but she only sniffled. "It's unfair that witches are under so much pressure," he finally said. "We're all human, and from what I've seen, the rules only make people miserable. If you want to have sex, just do it, and if you don't, don't."
Unfortunately she started crying again. "Why couldn't Phil have ruined me first? I'd at least be free to live a new life, but now I'm back where I started."
"Well, that's easily sorted," said Harry in spite of himself, and Daphne actually laughed.
"God, you're such a manwhore! We all thought you'd improved with Fiona, but here you are, back to your old tricks."
He knew she didn't mean it as an insult, and he removed his arm from her shoulders so he could face her. "I know this is hard," he said. "Obviously Fiona didn't cheat on me, but I know what it's like to have your future ripped out from under you. And again, I'm so sorry to have brought it about."
Her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was blotchy from crying, but her fond expression more than made up for it. "It's hard to stay angry at you," she admitted. "You're a smug, heedless bastard—pure Gryffindor—but you're unbelievably sweet. I came here to throttle you, or even curse you, but here you are, making me feel better."
She met his gaze, and without even thinking, he gave her the Look. There's no rule I need to wait, he thought, recalling his plan to take a break from dating. And she'd be an ideal fuckmate, if she's willing.
Her eyes seemed to darken, which he took as an invitation. He leaned forwards, meeting her lips ...
Whack! "How dare you!" she cried, and his cheek smarted from where she'd slapped him.
"I'm sorry!" he said, backing away, and she leapt from her seat.
"I can't believe you! First you give me terrible advice, then you sit back while my boyfriend cheats on me. Next you comfort me, and for a moment I start to believe I'll get over him someday. But then you pounce at the first opportunity, because Merlin forbid you go three days without getting your wand polished!"
"I wasn't trying–" he sputtered.
"Oh yes, you were! God, why did I ever think I could teach you etiquette, when you're a walking erection!"
She stormed towards the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and turned around again. "Harry Potter-Black, you disgust me! And yes, I'm using your made-up name, because you're an embarrassment to both families!" With that, she tossed the powder into the grate and left in a blaze of flame and fury.
Still reeling, Harry rubbed his cheek again. How the hell did she do that? he wondered. Kreacher's magic should have protected him—it had stopped Draco from shoving him, back at his drag party. Although he'd told Kreacher to allow mild swatting from a saucy witch—which apparently this was, even though his cheek still hurt.
Naturally, Jamie thought it was hilarious. "You cheeky bastard," he said, ambushing him from Padfoot's frame. "You absolutely deserved that, and I couldn't be prouder."
"Brilliant, I've impressed the only wizard sluttier than I am. This day just gets better and better."
"Oh, come on—you did her a favour. She was a sobbing wreck, and she thought her life had ended. But now she's furious, which is a considerable improvement."
"You seem to have forgotten she was furious when she arrived. The sobbing came later."
"Right, good point," said Jamie. "But trust me, you got her juices flowing—I'm sure it's just a matter of time. I mean really, do you think I succeeded with Aurora on the first try?"
"I am not taking advice from you," said Harry firmly. "Fuck—this was probably your influence."
"No, it was pure alchemy. She's a fit bird, make no mistake, and if we learnt anything from Fiona, it's that a crying witch is an easy target. So you took a chance and it didn't work out—just chalk it up to experience."
But Harry was still downcast during dinner with Hermione, prior to their Light Arts lesson.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Is it hard being home again?"
"A bit, yeah," he said, listlessly prodding his food. "At first it felt great—the house even showed me a new room. But now it's just ... harsh reality."
Hermione sighed. "It must be difficult without Fiona."
She was right—none of this would have happened if Rob Dunning hadn't returned. "I just feel lost, and foolish," he admitted.
"Why foolish?"
"I don't want to talk about it," he said, still mortified by his behaviour with Daphne. "By the way, I have bad news about the goblin initiative."
"I already know. And yes, it's disappointing we'll have to wait, but Ryan's so happy about the rules change that I daren't complain."
"We'll get the job done eventually," said Harry. "And Draco is definitely still on board. His father wants him to betray us, of course, but Draco's not even slightly interested."
"I'll take your word for it," she said, frowning, and Harry's shoulders sank. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. You really must be upset—normally you're much more resilient. Can you access your Light magic?"
"Good question." He closed his eyes and invited the pleasant sensations to arise. Swirling images from America filled his head: his midnight broom race through skyscrapers; watching Valerie try on the red dress; hobnobbing with artists in a Manhattan loft; and, above all, lush memories of Marina.
"Yes, that's clearly working," said Hermione. "You're the image of contentment."
Davina noticed it as well, as soon as she arrived. "Why, Harry! I can see the trip to America suited you!"
"Yes, it was just what I needed. Coming home is a bit of an adjustment, but I'm sure I'll manage."
They discussed his discovery that Light magic still functioned while he was in jail. "I wish there were a better name for it," said Davina, "since clearly it isn't magic, and we know Muggles can feel it."
"What do they call it?" asked Hermione.
Davina chuckled. "A few of them call it magic, actually. But I've also heard terms like 'fundamental wellbeing,' which I think is appropriate. And the energetic sensations have any number of names, depending on which culture is talking about them."
Harry asked about household magic, as described by Narcissa. "I'd love to strengthen the Light magic in the house, to be a better host," he said. "Although maybe I have done already, considering how the house is warming up to me."
"What do you mean, warming up to you?" asked Davina.
"It revealed another room, although that's nothing new. I think that's just a Head of House thing. But I also feel more welcome than before. It already improved when we cleared the Dark magic, after the war, but now maybe there's Light magic as well." He paused, then said, "Do you think Jamie's having an influence? I know he's had a good effect on some of the portraits."
Davina looked unconvinced. "Maybe," she said dubiously. "Hermione, do you feel a change?"
Hermione took a moment to consider it. "Not really. But Harry's Light magic is deeper than mine."
"What about you, Davina?" asked Harry. Surely she would feel the difference, he thought.
"No, it feels the same as always. Not actively hostile, as I'm sure it used to be, but not noticeably Light." Her brow furrowed, and she said, "I suppose it could be a Head of House thing. Have you noticed any other changes, besides the new rooms?"
It was hard for him to answer, since so much had changed since Rob Dunning came back, and with the trip to America. "Oh, I know!" he blurted. "I'm much better at Portkey travel now." He told them about the Dark wizard who'd lit a cigarette while crossing the Atlantic. "The guy was a complete dick, so I decided to prove to myself Light wizards could do it as well."
"You smoked a cigarette?" exclaimed Hermione.
"Of course not! No, I just enjoyed the scenery, and during the final leg I pulled out my boutonnière and sniffed it. And I landed without stumbling—not even a little."
Davina raised a single eyebrow. "Impressive. But tell me, which emotion did you use? Was it love, or something else?"
Harry explained how he'd used his wish to promote the Light Arts. "Everyone knows I'm a Light wizard, so I decided it would be beneficial if they saw me do something impressive. Like, maybe it'll inspire them to learn Light magic themselves."
"That's a good motivation, certainly. But can you walk me through it, in a bit more detail?"
His answer took longer than he expected, since it started with his voyage from Boston to Chicago, but it expanded to cover his Light magic in general—and how it had deepened during the trip. "The final night was incredible. Marina and I went out in Muggle New York, and we wound up at this amazing party. There were artists and musicians—Lou Reed was there—and a million other interesting people. And normally I'm a complete nobody in Muggle settings, but with Marina I was someone special. People literally asked what I was on, since I was radiating Light magic, and when we got home–"
He paused, then said, "Sorry if this is too much information, but when we were together that night ... There I was, with literally the most gorgeous woman I've ever met, and there was no boundary between us, none at all. And oh my god, her absolutely unbelievable body, merged with my own ..."
Overwhelmed with Light magic, he could no longer speak. Meanwhile, Hermione was gaping at him, and Davina looked astonished as well.
"I felt my own power, like never before," he said, in a voice he barely recognised. "It was like Marina was the outer manifestation of something that's always been a part of me, and I was finally seeing it. And it … it felt like the reason I'm the world's most famous wizard, and all the rest." He took a deep breath, then said, "Anyway, that's how I did the final trip home, and it was perfect."
Hermione let out a whimper, but Davina was first to reply. "Harry, there's no easy way to tell you this, so I'll have to be blunt. That wasn't Light magic. That was Dark."
Harry went rigid—not just his muscles but also his subtle energy, which was flowing so strongly a moment earlier. "What?" he rasped.
"Specifically, it's the wrong kind of pride," she continued. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, but when you become enamoured with your own specialness, you're reinforcing an ignorant view of the self. Which is the basis for Dark magic."
Unable to wrap his mind around her words, he said, "So, I'm a Dark wizard?"
"That's not what I'm saying—you're merely pointed down that path, and tasting some of its fruits. However, I'm sure you could still glow."
He immediately lit up, if only to prove he still could. But Hermione's hair didn't spark, as it usually did when he glowed, and she looked close to tears.
"Is this why I'm more comfortable in the house?" he asked, no longer glowing. But before Davina could answer, he said, "Oh my god, Malfoy Manor! I was way more comfortable in Malfoy Manor!"
Hermione started to cry, and when Harry reached for his handkerchief, he remembered he'd given it to Daphne. "And I was such a prick to Daphne!" he blurted. "She'd just been dumped, and I made a fucking move on her!"
"You made a move on Daphne?" exclaimed Hermione, who'd conjured a handkerchief of her own.
Harry clutched his head in shame. "Christ, I'm such an arsehole."
"No, you aren't," said Davina. "And that kind of thinking will only make the problem worse. You've fallen into a common trap, but we've caught it quickly, and you can definitely turn things around."
"How?" he said, close to tears himself.
"I'm here to help you, and—more importantly—so is Hermione."
Hermione immediately sat up. "Yes! How can I help?" she said, and Harry almost smiled, recalling her eagerness back in school.
"I've always said Light Arts practitioners need peers, and this is why," said Davina. "Harry, this was bound to happen, given your circumstances. And as I said, I'm sure you can turn it around."
"But won't it just happen again?" he said dolefully. "Or do I need to change my whole lifestyle? What I wear, for example."
"Don't you dare stop wearing fitted robes," said Hermione. "Davina, that isn't necessary, right?"
"Of course not. You can't bury a part of yourself, and there's nothing wrong with being a bit of a dandy."
"But dandies were mostly pricks, remember?"
"You're not a classic dandy," said Hermione. "They mostly insulted people, but you've dropped your obnoxious Seeker persona, for the most part."
"Not enough, apparently." He massaged his aching brow and said, "Davina, what should I do?"
"You've already taken the first step, which is to admit there's a problem. If you were too far gone, you'd vehemently deny it, but you didn't argue with me at all." Harry smiled weakly, and Davina said, "The next step is asking for help, which you're doing. And you should keep doing it, multiple times a day."
Harry was puzzled. "What, should I owl you or something? That seems a bit weird—but I'll do it, if that's what it takes."
Davina laughed. "No, that's not what I meant. Although it would be a nice gesture from time to time, more for your sake than mine." He nodded, and she said, "What I meant, however, was that you should ask for help from anyone you respect, whether they're here or not. It could be someone dead or alive, real or imaginary—anyone at all."
"You mean, whenever I catch myself being an arrogant wanker, I should, like, ask my mum for help?"
"If that works, yes. Or anyone, really. It can help to shuffle things around, to keep the practice fresh."
Harry took a breath to clear his head, then looked vaguely upwards. "Mum? It's me, Harry," he said, a little sheepish. "I, er … I completely fucked up. I'm supposed to be a Light wizard, but something went wrong and now I'm comfortable in Malfoy bloody Manor, and I really need your help."
Davina was nodding. "Yes, keep it genuine like that."
"But can she really hear me? I still don't really know what happens after we die, in spite of everything."
"It doesn't matter," said Davina. "It's the asking that counts. It means you don't see yourself as infallible, which was starting to happen."
Hermione was still perched forwards, ready to act, and Harry said, "Hermione, I know you're busy, but maybe I could see you more often? At least until I get my head on straight?"
"Yes, definitely! Lunch, dinner—you name it. And Ryan will be travelling for a while with the national team, so I'll be available more often."
"Surely you'll want to join him sometimes!"
"Well, yes, but only occasionally. And this is more important."
Of course I am, Harry thought, and he felt a surge of pleasure. "Fuck!" he said aloud. "There it is again!"
"That's good—you're noticing it," said Davina. "It means you've set an intention, and you should renew that intention multiple times a day." She explained how to handle flare-ups. "First use compassion—towards yourself. And be grateful when you notice the problem, even if it takes you half an hour to realise what's happening. With practice, the interval will get shorter, and you'll catch it more quickly."
"But how should I behave?" he asked. "Apparently I don't need to start wearing boring clothes again, but I'm sure I need to change something."
"Maybe, although you only just got home from America, so perhaps that's enough of a change."
"Oh right," said Harry. "I couldn't open my mouth over there without someone fawning over my accent." He took a moment to review his trip, starting with the radio show in Boston. "Bugger!" he cried. "I agreed to go on the radio tomorrow! Do you think I should cancel?"
Hermione chuckled. "I don't know, that might be perfect. George always gives you a hard time."
Harry looked at Davina, who said, "I think it's fine if you go on the radio. But watch your mind, and your motivation."
"Should I admit to what's happening?" he asked, not at all comfortable with the idea.
Davina shook her head quickly. "No. You haven't lost your Light magic, but there may be a hole or two in your protection, and you might be vulnerable to attack."
"Oh my god!" he said, horrified again. "That's how Daphne managed to slap me!"
"She slapped you!" exclaimed Hermione. "What exactly did you do to her?"
"I tried kissing her," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I should probably send an apology, right?"
Both witches nodded, and Harry asked them to test his defences. Neither was willing to curse him, but Davina threw a book at him, and it collided with an invisible shield.
"Thank Merlin," said Harry, relaxing a bit. "I suppose Daphne was only able to slap me because it was kind of an edge case."
Once his safety was assured, the lesson began in earnest. Davina went deep into Light motivation, and the power of watching the mind. "And watching your behaviour," she said. "It's rare for Dark wizards to have an inviolable code of conduct. They might avoid certain behaviours if someone would find out, but they won't avoid a bad deed they can get away with. But as Light Arts practitioners, we have to be answerable to ourselves, which means there's no dropping our code of conduct."
Harry was listening, but it was hard to focus through his inner turmoil. Rita was right—I'm hopelessly egotistical. I announced to the entire world I'm a Light wizard, and within months I start turning Dark! He glanced down at the family ring, which he kept visible at home, for Kreacher's sake. I could blame the Black family magic, but who am I kidding—this comes straight from my dad. Although I doubt he ever practised Dark magic. Merlin, he'd be so ashamed of me!
"Why is it so pleasant?" he blurted. "Voldemort's Dark magic didn't feel nearly this good." Hermione set down her quill, and Harry belatedly realised he'd interrupted them. "Er, I'm sorry—we can get back to this later."
"No, it's a good question," said Davina. "And it illustrates just how dangerous Dark magic is, particularly in your situation."
"Oh?" he said, more worried even than before.
"Your Light magic has already opened a lot of pathways to bliss. And from what I can tell, you can activate it almost as easily as flipping a switch." Harry nodded, and she said, "I assume you've noticed you can make it stronger by gathering your thoughts around a single object."
"Exactly. Only now it's pride," he said dejectedly.
"That's right. You're flooding your subtle body with powerful energy, and I have no doubt it's exceedingly pleasant. But it won't last, because ego-grasping will gradually close off your subtle pathways. You could become a formidable Dark wizard and strengthen your magic, but you'd lose all the non-magical benefits—and then some."
Harry thought back to his night in jail, and how comforting his Light non-magic had been. "No, it's not worth it—not even close."
After Davina left, Hermione stayed with him longer than normal. "Harry, I'm so sorry. But I'm proud of you for admitting the problem so readily, and asking for help."
"Please, don't praise me," he groaned. "The last thing I need is a bigger ego."
"You're allowed to be proud of your accomplishments, not to mention your efforts to undo the damage. And Davina says you mustn't despair."
But it was hard to feel anything else that night, and Harry trudged glumly up to his bedroom. "I assume you heard the news," he said to Jamie, entering the wardrobe.
"Yeah, but I haven't told anyone," said Jamie. "I'd never hear the end of it from the other portraits if they found out we'd tapped into Dark magic."
Harry was oddly heartened by Jamie's choice of pronoun. "Are you doing it too?" he asked.
"I dunno, maybe. I didn't go to America like you did—or have an affair with Marina—but I definitely strut around Grimmauld Place."
"Does this mean you'll stop?" asked Harry, unsure what he wanted to hear.
Jamie shrugged. "Good question. I should lay off the doodles, at the very least. They're as bad as Americans when it comes to dishing out undeserved praise."
"But you'll keep seeing Aurora?"
"Yeah, I think so. She's not shy about criticising me, certainly. And my Light magic's been good for her, so maybe that'll inspire me to hang onto it."
Harry hadn't considered it, but Jamie was right—Light magic was most powerful when practised for someone else. Like Mum did, he thought. That's the whole reason I'm alive.
He addressed her that night, lying alone in his bed. "Hi, Mum?" he began. "Dad too, I guess—no reason to leave you out." He paused, then said, "I'm really ashamed. Everyone thinks I'm a hero, and my picture is on billboards, and people literally wank to me. But I feel like an enormous fraud.
"I thought I was a Light wizard—that's another thing I'm famous for—but my fucking ego got in the way. God, maybe I should move back in with the Dursleys—I'm sure they'd knock me down to size." Harry realised he was rambling, when he should have been asking for help. "Anyway, I need your help. Like you haven't done enough for me already, sacrificing your lives and all. Merlin, I'm such a dick!"
He belatedly remembered what Davina had said about self-compassion. "Right, I'm supposed to be nice to myself," he said aloud. "Which is hard, when I feel like such a shit. But maybe you can help with that too. Because Merlin knows I can't do it myself—not right now."
His throat clenched. "God, I miss Fiona," he rasped. "This never would have happened if she'd been keeping an eye on me." He let out a hollow laugh and said, "Maybe she was like a mum, at least a little."
He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Anyway, please help me. I don't know how you'll do it, or if you can even hear me. I'm guessing not—you probably took that train I saw in King's Cross. But Davina says I'm supposed to ask, so that's what I'm doing."
There was nothing else to say, he realised. Just ask for help, again and again, he thought, setting the intention with every fibre of his being.